


Last First Kiss

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, Johnlockary - Freeform, Multi, Salsa dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary catches Sherlock before he leaves the wedding and asks for a dance. Sherlock finds he can't refuse her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: Johnlockary, first kiss.

The air is hatefully balmy as he steps outside the party hall, but he wraps his coat around himself anyway. The uncomfortable heat blurs his mind - wipes the events of the past few hours with a fuzzy patina helped along by champagne and weariness. He hasn’t slept in weeks, it feels like. He’d taken it upon himself to cover all the last-minute wedding details to give Mary a break, dragged John along on a couple of cases to keep the groom-to-be sane, and popped more patches than he can now recall to keep his head above water. Now the whirlwind has passed, along with the post-case high. The crash is coming. The little food he’s eaten curdles in his stomach. In his mind he tracks the path to the nearest Boot's, then cab, then hotel: Dramamine, clothes off, lock the door, sleep. Four steps, no more than half an hour. He can make it.

“Sherlock?”

Stupid. _Stupid_. Someone saw him go. He straightens, lowers the mask, turns on a dime. His smile feels stretched and over-bright, but the darkness is forgiving. “Hello, Mary. Just stepped out for some fresh air. It’s been… quite a day.”

The falter can’t be helped. She’s pink-cheeked, but the smiles are all gone. In the light of the party hall, her eyes sparkle like stars. Sherlock’s heart gives an arrhythmic _thump-thump_ as she stands before him, arms folded, sweat curling the hair at her temples. “If you’re sure. You looked a bit… off.” She puts a hand on his arm. He only just barely keeps from flinching away.

“I’m sure.” His smile must look like a grimace. All he wants to do is get away.

“Janine said you wanted to dance,” Mary presses. “John’s had enough for now, I wondered if you’d do the honors.”

“Enough? He’s barely started.”

“Yes, well, you know our John. Isn’t much for coordination.” She smiles sweetly, coaxingly. Her hand on his arm is like a vise. “Come on. It’s my wedding day.”

He wanted to hate her, once. But the biggest surprise of Sherlock Holmes’ life has come not once, but twice. Loving John Watson, he’s painfully accustomed to. Falling in love with Mary Morstan? That was unexpected.

“If you insist.”

“I do.” She’s still smiling. She hooks her arm into his and leads the way back along the path. But instead of heading back into the party hall, she guides him around the edges to a small stone patio. The windows are open, letting the music drift out. The heavy, bass-thumping rhythm is giving way to something warmer, more Mediterranean: like sunshine and spices and the sharp tang of alcohol under syrup-sweet. Salsa.

“Do you tango?” Mary asks, ever playful.

“Yes, of course. But you don’t.” Sherlock’s stomach is calming. This might be a pleasant evening after all. A dance or two with the bride to settle him, a stroll down the boulevard with the palm trees overhead… no. This isn’t Seville. _Concentrate_. “I believe you took salsa lessons, once upon a time.”

Her full mouth quirks. “I did. John was terrified I’d make him, tonight. But I went easy on him.”

“Mm. Most painful box-step I’ve ever seen.” Sherlock lifts his face to a soothing breeze and counts the time in his head. “Come on, then, before your husband misses you and comes looking.”

She’s a sweet, warm armful in his embrace, smelling of flowers, stale perfume, and the light saltiness of a day’s worth of sweat. She shuffles a bit to kick off her shoes. “Count the time off for me?”

“No need.” He taps his fingers against her waist instead. “Just follow me.”

Mary raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but in this – as with so many other things – Sherlock is a master. He walks her through the steps slowly, in half-time, staying close to home base as he takes her back and forth, then side-to-side, then diagonally. When she’s warmed up to it, he begins to guide her in wider circles. She’s not looking at her feet anymore – instead she looks up at him, laughing, responding beautifully to the pressure of his hands at her waist.

Sherlock can feel the music’s peak in his blood. His heart is throbbing in his chest as he whirls her, taking their combined weight in his heels, and sweeps her backward. She melts with the dip like butter in his arms. Her head tips back and he can see her throat, long and white and bared to the open night sky. To him. His own head falls forward, questing – his nose lingers in the hollow of her throat, breathing her in. The fresh air has mellowed her scent, wiped away the faded sweat-smell and the manufactured alcohol-tint of her perfume. She smells only of Mary, and of the late hour, wrapped in the wisteria breeze that enfolds them.

“Sherlock.”

He realizes he’s still holding her weight. Slowly he straightens, drawing her upright. The music has moved on to something a little slower, more romantic – he swallows the bitter taste in his mouth. She’ll be wanting to return to John. Obviously. This sort of song is forgiving for those whose only capabilities lie in swaying mindlessly back and forth –

Her hand is on his cheek. Her humid heat is pressed against his front, even through her dress and his tuxedo. Sherlock takes a deep breath. She isn’t as tall as he is, but somehow her mouth is on his level anyway. It’s almost a crime not to lean forward, not to touch his lips to hers as delicately as the sun unfolding on a flower.

The touch is warm and soft, and tasting faintly of lipstick. Her hand slides into his hair. This is no longer a polite, kiss-the-bride gesture. His tongue is riding the inner seam of her mouth. His hand is firm on her waist, the other spreading against the bared skin of her upper back. He knows, can’t help but know, that he is tasting forbidden fruit. But even the bitter aftertaste can’t mar her sweetness.

He is lost, but not so lost that the sound of soft footsteps on stone is inaudible to him. He steps away quickly, not quickly enough; John is standing a few yards away, suit coat unbuttoned, hands in his pockets. His face is creased with something – anxiety, fear, thoughtfulness?

“It was me,” Sherlock stammers before he can say anything. Before the truth can sink in. “Entirely my idea, don’t – don’t blame Mary.”

A soft sigh. Mary puts her hand on his arm again. “Oh, Sherlock.”

He does jerk away this time. The pit of his stomach is souring again – he feels overly warm, and sticky, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. When John takes a few steps toward them, he flinches, almost expecting the cuff on the ear from Mycroft for misbehaving.

There is no cuff. No scold. John stands before him, scant inches between the toes of their dress shoes. With careful deliberation, he reaches up, and the palms of his hands are warm and slightly calloused on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s heart is running away with him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Surely the punch is coming. “So sorry.”

John’s thumb rests just beneath the socket of his right eye. “Sorry for what, Sherlock?”

 _For loving her. For loving you, and for it not being enough. Nothing will ever be enough._ All the things he can’t say aloud are filling up his lungs, pressing at the backs of his eyes. He is pale and bloodless – he can feel the sucking pinpricks of the dance’s flush draining from him, as if the bones of his skull are pulling away from the skin, leaving empty, cold space behind.

He can’t say it. John, strangely, doesn’t seem to mind. His hands pull at him, drag Sherlock’s bones back into his skin, and oh. John tastes different. His lips are smaller, neater, little military soldiers standing prim and on parade. Slightly chapped after a day of nervous licking. Inside is hot and wet, like Mary, but with sugar and a little bit of garlic – he had the garlic-encrusted flank steak for dinner, and an extra slice of cake just now. No champagne. Sherlock endeavors to push the flavors of wine and cigarettes into John’s mouth.

He is clutching his lapels, crushing John’s boutonnière in one fist. He is making noises, he thinks – when Mary’s small hand rests against his back, Sherlock’s throat seizes, and he must withdraw before he bites. An image rises in his mind’s eye of John with his lips red and swollen with soft, persistent nibbling, and Sherlock’s exhale becomes a whine.

“Don’t be sorry,” John murmurs, smiling. Pink-cheeked.

“We’re the ones who should be sorry.” Mary presses her lips to John’s, then up on tiptoe to Sherlock’s jaw. Too short to reach his cheek, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. “Everything you said, Sherlock, your vow – you should know the sentiment is completely mutual.”

“For both of us.” John takes his hand. His eyes and dark and serious, even though his lips can’t seem to stop smiling. Sherlock wants to kiss him again. “So go on back to the hotel, if you like. I know this isn’t really your thing.”

“It isn’t yours, either,” Sherlock reminds him, and gets his hand squeezed gently for his trouble.

“Well, I’m sort of required to be here.” John leans in, pseudo-confidential. “By order of the bride.”

Mary laughs. “Or you could stay. Stay and dance.”

Sherlock looks between them. A whirlwind is consuming him, but somehow their bodies anchor him, keep him steady. “And what then?”

Mary winks, cheeky. “What do you think happens on wedding nights, Sherlock?”

“She means sex,” John whispers. “If you’re amenable.”

“Sex.” Sherlock’s throat is very, very dry. “With…”

“You, yes.” John smiles like a cat that’s caught the canary. Sherlock wants to lick it off.

“All right.” Sherlock looks around, quickly. They are still alone. He snakes an arm around Mary’s waist and draws her close, and kisses her giggles into silence. John’s weight is pleasant and warm against his other side, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to turn his head a fraction and kiss him next.

“So,” Mary murmurs, sounding breathless. “Hotel, or dancing?”

Sherlock looks down at her, down at both of them. Flushing and smiling and utterly beautiful. “Dancing,” he decides. “Dancing, first. And then…”

“And then.” John squeezes his hand as he kisses Mary, and Sherlock can almost feel the ghostly pressure of that neat little mouth on his. 


End file.
